


Phoenix Rising

by Cynaera (LFN_Archivist)



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 03:50:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16468145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Cynaera
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Cynaera, who passed away in 2012.





	Phoenix Rising

The car blew up. Elena was in it. Section arranged it. 

_WHY_? Michael shoved his hands deeper into his pockets as he walked down the dark street, the rain plastering his hair to his skull, making him look fragile and young. He felt old – dead – decayed. 

_Why_? he asked again, silently. His tears blended with the rain, hot mixed with cold. His mind was cluttered with thoughts, of his son, his wife, Nikita, Section, Simone… They were murky and muddied, a jumbled blend of light and dark figures in his memories – mixing together as a sort of emotional stew. 

Out of the miasma of images, Adam called out to him. “Daddy, let’s play ball – I can beat you…” Michael stopped dead, his body rigid in the dark and the rain, as people passed him on the street. He closed his eyes, shivering, remembering. Adam. His son. His legacy. It couldn’t be happening… 

The remembrance of his son, hugging him with small, fierce arms; those sloppy, loving kisses; that smell of child, a combination of new tennis shoes, solid earth, and that indescribable fragrance unique to an innocent one… Michael inhaled the fragrance, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting to hold on to every single second of his time with Adam. It didn’t matter that the boy was borne from a relationship spawned by Section. It was not important that Adam’s mother was a woman Michael respected, admired, was fond of, but did not love – at least, not in the way a man _should_ love the mother of his child. All that mattered was that Michael was alone, again. 

He knew Elena was dead. He didn’t know what Section had done with his child. 

The rain pelted down harder, colder. Michael lifted his face to the sky, eyes still closed, and let the water wash away his tears. The time for mourning had to end, now. It was time for revenge… 

~~~ 

Nikita lay on her couch, a half-empty glass of wine on the table beside her. One arm was over her eyes, and the other dangled off the edge of the couch, limp. She’d cried all the tears she could muster. It frightened her that the operative in her took over then, controlling her emotions, curbing her desire to scream. She kept envisioning Michael’s face – the shock, the pain, the absolute devastation. His eyes had been a color she’d never seen before, and she’d feared for the lives of everyone in his proximity when he’d learned of Elena’s “unfortunate accident”. To his credit, he’d kept his emotions in check, revealing nothing to anyone who did not know him deeply. 

Nikita had been surprised that Operations and Mad’laine had not caught the glint of deadly hatred that had flashed in his eyes a split second before he had shut down. She remembered his earlier words, uttered with a soft, deadly precision: “If she dies, _they die_ …” She’d held her breath, then – praying fervently that he would hold it together, just a little longer… 

~~~ 

A knock on her door brought her upright on the couch. She’d been expecting it, but with equal parts dread and anticipation. She stood, shook her head to clear it of the effects of the wine, and went to the door, glancing at her watch as she did so. It was nearly one A.M. Typical of Michael to pay such nocturnal visits to her, as if she had no life of her own. With a start, Nikita realized that she hinged her life on Michael’s visits, or the secretive phone calls when a voice whispered, “Josephine”. She tempered her joy with the sorrow, or death. She experienced the sunlight, but always with a guarded sense of impending disruption. 

Opening the door, she let him in without a word. His appearance broke her heart, again. He hadn’t shaved, and his hair was soaked, his face gaunt. His eyes were dark, pained, desperate, pleading. He had no words, and Nikita didn’t ask for any. She closed the door behind him, took his arm and guided him tenderly into the womb of her apartment, the warmth, the friendship that he so needed. Peeling his wet jacket from him, she whispered, “Sit in front of the fire, Michael. Get warm and dry. I’ll make coffee.” 

She left him, huddled in front of the fireplace like a frightened child, his hands extended to the flames as if to bring life to his dead heart. Michael closed his eyes, without even the strength to fight back the tears anymore. They streamed down his cheeks, and he could hear himself whimpering, but could not stop the sound… 

Nikita was with him as soon as she’d put the coffee on – she knew that to go to him too soon would be, in his eyes, a gesture of pity that he would reject. She deliberately waited in the kitchen until the coffeemaker began to make noise, until the smell of coffee wafted through the apartment. When she knew that he would smell it and would connect the time frames involved, she slowly went to him. 

Without touching him, she squatted down beside him in front of the fire. Wordless, she waited for him to meet her eyes. When he finally looked up, his eyes a frightening silver-green, she whispered, “Michael – I’m so sorry…” She said nothing else – waiting, the silence between them drawing out excruciatingly until it seemed the rest of the night would be spent in mute grief. 

“Ni-ki-ta…” She flinched, not expecting him to say her name. Held her breath – afraid to move, to breathe, to blink – for fear of breaking the spell of the darkness and the anguish. A long moment passed. Then, “Thank you…” A hand touched her arm…squeezed it urgently…pulled her closer. Nikita closed her eyes then, and slid into the embrace of the man who had trained her, guided her, protected her, sacrificed everything for her… As his arms went around her, there in the black night, in front of the warm light of the fire, Nikita sighed soundlessly. 

Michael held her – his arms tightening around her – and he realized that through all the pain, all the deceptions, the lies, the betrayals, the crazy, cruel, manipulative power-plays of Section One, Nikita had been his one constant. Had been, and was, still. Yielding to the weight of the world on his shoulders, Michael broke down completely, and sobbed like a child – like Adam – in her arms… And when his tears and sorrow were spent, he slept like a child – like Adam – in her arms… And he did not dream…


End file.
